I Told You I'm A Psycho
by IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: Lestrade got strange letters for a few months before he finally was able to meet his stalker: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother, politician in the government. Killer. Psycho.  Dark/Psycho!Mycroft, slight AU, Mystrade, slight Johnlock
1. You know I'm gonna' get ya

When people talk about their first date with their now-husband or now-wife, everyone will tell you they went to a nice restaurant, had dinner, watched a movie, kissed in front of the door and one of them left. When people ask Gregory Lestrade, he has to lie. Not that he would be ashamed of his first date with his now-husband, _au contraire _it had been exciting, but not a default date.

They didn't really agree to have a date; it was Mycroft Holmes who decided he wanted to see the DI. Someone always sent him letters, pictures of Greg showering, of Greg laughing and working, sweets, and beer. Little gifts without any signature, only one sentence written in red ink – he later found out that it was human blood – "I'm a psycho, but who cares?". Of course Greg tried to find the person responsible for this, but without any fingerprints and little DNA, they didn't have a chance.

Greg tried to ignore the letters like everyone would, but after a while – and twenty letters telling him that he was good-looking, handsome and a great bloke, he began to get curious. Who would send him something like that, letters written in blood with gifts only couples would send each other? His mind told him not to be a fool; this man or woman could be a stalker or a killer, waiting for the chance to rape and murder him. These letters were a farce, he shouldn't blush every time he was reading them. He really shouldn't, it was foolish, absolutely dumb and silly, but he still lay in his bed and imagined how the writer of these... love letters might look like.

Definitely tall, Greg loved tall men to whom he had to look up. Maybe rich and posh, no one would enunciate himself like the writer without being posh, polite – a man with style. Hopefully not ugly, not that he was a man who only adored someone's looks, but it was more attractive to be adored by a handsome bloke.

The more letters he got, the clearer the picture got. The writer told him that he was able to hack into every camera in the entire town and country and that he was able to see Greg always, anywhere he maybe. Some people would freak out because of that, but Greg felt flattered. There was someone out there who spent his time watching him, a psycho probably, but the thought was what counted. He felt like a fool, slowly falling in love with someone he had never met and who stalked him, but he couldn't help himself.

The way the man spoke, how Greg was able to tell in which mood he was only because of his handwriting – normally his letters were a little bit italic and small, a beautiful and elegant handwriting; but sometimes the letters were bigger and cramped and Greg somehow knew that the man had been angry about something; or the letters were smaller than usual and written in block letters, a sign that the writer was tired, exhausted and sad. It was sick to think that he was able to deduce that, but he **knew** he was right. There was no doubt about that.

After a month of daily letters, he began to tell everyone that they had stopped. Sherlock didn't believe him and neither did John, but neither of them said anything. Sally was glad, his superior allowed him to go out without bodyguards following him everywhere – the writer had commented that they were silly and non-essential, that he would have been able to kill them within minutes – and the other officers didn't even comment on it. Of course they all were glad that this freak stopped stalking him. He always got angry when they talked about the writer like that. He wasn't a freak, he was gentle, posh, and lovely. He paid attention to Greg when no one else did, commented when he had a new haircut when no one at the Yard noticed.

Yes, he fell in love with his stalker, problems with that?

After another month, the letters changed. The writer told him that he wanted to meet him and that while it sounded like he was inviting Greg to his last meal before getting raped and killed, the writer assured Greg that he wouldn't hurt him. He would never hurt Greg, and the DI believed him.

So when the writer asked him if he wanted to meet him in a warehouse outside of London, Greg turned his head to the camera in his room from which he knew that the man watched him, and nodded. His heart beat faster and he blushed, because he felt that the man was smiling and grinning. If people found out, they'd call him crazy, maniac.

Greg was standing and searching for his coat when someone knocked on his door. He opened it and was surprised to see Sherlock and John, both looking serious, John a bit worried too.

"How can I help you?" he asked politely, even if he wanted them to piss off so he could go on his... date? Meeting? He didn't care what it was, his hands were wet because of his excitement.

"We read the letters," John said after clearing his throat. "And we know that you're about to go to this meeting..."

"We're here to make sure you don't go because John is worried that this man is going to kill or rape you – probably both."

Greg sighed. He knew that they wouldn't let him go, because they thought the writer was dangerous. They didn't know the truth, they had never seen the gifts and they weren't able to read between the lines, they didn't see the love and admiration. But he did. He pushed them out of the way and ran downstairs, hearing a shout and he knew that they were following him. He tried to get into his car, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. John wrapped his arms around Greg and pushed him down to the floor, holding him tight. Greg wasn't able to escape. Fucking army training.

"Let me go," he demanded angrily, "I could get you arrested for that!"

John sighed and Sherlock, standing in the doorframe with a blank expression, opened one of the letters and began to read it. Greg watched him carefully, it was the one with the address of the warehouse and without it he wouldn't be able to find the location. It took the consulting detective twenty seconds to read the letter and fifteen seconds until he ripped it. Greg growled and tried to push John out of the way.

"You're acting like a maniac, Greg!" John hissed in his ear. "This man is going to hurt you, don't you see that?"

"You know nothing about him!"

"I do," Sherlock said while running his fingers through his curly hair, "I know this handwriting. That's why we can't let you go."

"Since when do you care?" Greg growled. There was no way he would be able to escape John's grip. The army doctor was too strong for him. "Let me go, John! Now!"

"Knock him out, John, he's annoying me with his crazy behavior."

Greg heard a sight. To hell with their care, he was a grown man, able to defend himself if he was in danger and the writer didn't pose a threat, he was sure. He could hear a car racing in their direction, and then a loud bang – a sound like someone using a crowbar to hit someone else's skull – and a hushed scream. Someone pulled John away from Greg, as he looked to his side, he could see the unmoving and unconscious body of the ex-army doctor lying next to Sherlock's. Suddenly there were hands on his shoulders and someone lent down, covering Greg's eyes with one hand.

"I'm afraid I'll have to kidnap you now, Detective Inspector, there's a warehouse desperately waiting for your presence."

And then everything went black because someone hit his head.

* * *

><p>He wasn't in pain as he woke up, which surprised him. His vision, as he slowly opened his eyes, was blurred, his head dizzy and every thought disappeared when he tried to continue with it. It was dark, cold but there was heat coming from somewhere in front of him. The only sound he could hear was a ringing in his head, the aftermath of the knock. And there was a tapping. He was only able to see frames, but he was sure there was a man, slowly walking in a circle around him, watching him. Greg felt the burning gaze on his skin.<p>

He groaned and shook his head to clear it.

It worked and suddenly everything was sharp and he was able to see the stranger, now stopped, standing directly in front of him.

The man was ginger, his hair colour a cross between bright red and dark brown – auburn. His eyes were shining in the darkness surrounding them, bright blue-grey eyes looking directly at him without blinking. He was tall, taller than Sherlock and – of course – taller than Greg. He wore a three-piece suit with a waistcoat, expensive looking shoes and a vintage pocket watch. He held an umbrella in his left hand, the source of the tapping. His smile made Greg's heart beat faster and faster.

The man didn't look like he had expected him to, except the height and the posh look, but that wasn't a problem. He still looked incredibly handsome.

"I assume you're finally awake, Detective Inspector?" the man asked him and Greg recognized the voice, it was the man who had covered Greg's eyes in front of his flat. "That's excellent, I was afraid that the food would get cold before you were awake."

Greg raised an eyebrow and turned his head in the direction the man was pointing with his umbrella. There was a table standing in the middle of the empty warehouse, covered with a red tablecloth, expensive-looking glasses and plates. And, much to Greg's amusement, a bag with the logo of a Chinese diner.

The man chuckled and caught Greg's attention again.

"Unfortunately I'm not able to prepare Chinese food, which I know is your favourite," he said and cocked his head a bit, "at least I was able to find some fitting wine you should like. But I think you should be able to ask questions, it was quite rude to kidnap you without asking if I was allowed to."

He chuckled again and swung his umbrella.

"I... well... who are you?" Greg titled his head and examined the stranger again. He was handsome, indeed, no one could pretend he wasn't.

"What an unoriginal question, my dear," Greg blushed because of the pet name and smiled like an idiot, "it seems like poor Sherlock wasn't able to tell you his conclusion?"

"He said that he knows you..." Greg whispered surprised and looked up into the stranger's eyes. "Where are Sherlock and John?"

"I'm surprised you are concerned about them after they tried to stop you from coming here," the stranger told him, but pointed with his umbrella to one of the walls.

Sherlock and John were sitting there, both tied to a chair with tape covering their eyes and mouths. Sherlock's forehead was covered in blood and Greg could see dried blood in John's hair. They were unconscious.

"As you can see, they both are alive and healthy." Greg turned his head to look at the man again. "Well, except for the terrible headaches when they awake, of course."

Greg nodded and cleared his throat. "Well, who are you?"

The man swung his umbrella again and bowed with a grin on his features.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of Sherlock Holmes. It's a pleasure, Detective Inspector, to finally talk to you face-to-face. Even if I have to admit your blushing every time you were reading one of my letters was quite cute to watch."

Greg blushed again and smiled. He couldn't help himself, this man made him feel like a love-drunk girl in high school, getting compliments from her crush. He had never met this man before and yet he still felt like he already knew everything about him. And he was a Holmes, which meant he was exciting, interesting and strange for everyone but the person who was able to understand him.

"Why did you write me these letters?" Greg asked the question he had been asking himself since he began to enjoy the little messages. Why would someone with this power, he was able to hack and control cameras everywhere after all, talk to Greg Lestrade? Why would he want to meet him, why would someone as handsome as this man tell him that he - a small man with grey hair and scars everywhere - was… cute, sexy, good-looking?

"Why not?" Mycroft asked him with titled head.

"Erm," Greg cleared his throat, "You could just have talked to me, you were at the crime scenes, sometimes I was able to see you."

"You noticed me?" Mycroft smiled and swung his umbrella - Greg was sure he had a gun or sword in it - again, "I'm impressed, Detective Inspector."

Greg felt flattered and smiled. He knew that this man must be a psycho or a killer - he admitted it in every single letter with the ending sentence "I'm a psycho" - but he enjoyed this chat. Mycroft Holmes was a good conversationalist, polite with the knowledge of when he should give a compliment. Greg wasn't Sherlock, but he would have known when this man lied to him - he was honest.

"So, why didn't you talk to me? Must have been easier than writing letters with… blood."

"Ah, of course you would find out that it's not red ink," Mycroft nodded and tapped his umbrella on the ground. "Blood isn't only nutrients. Blood is life, the liquid of the soul. It is the soul. 'Only be sure that thou eat not the blood: for the blood is life; and thou mayest not eat the life with the flesh.' I have always been a fan of old-fashioned media, letters are much more personal than phone-calls and I couldn't risk being seen by my dear brother." He switched the hand holding the umbrella and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Is it… your blood or do you… _**Kill people only because of their blood…?**_"

Mycroft smirked. "It is indeed the blood of my victims."

Greg jumped from the chair and jerked backwards, searching for his gun but it was gone. He knew that Mycroft was a killer, he had known it from the report Forensic gave him on the letters, but… to hear it from the man with an inflection as if he was talking about the weather… it shocked him.

"You seem to be surprised, Detective Inspector." The man took a step in Greg's direction and pointed with his umbrella at the table where Greg's gun lay. "Feel free to shoot me, if you want to."

"You're going to kill me if I reach for it, right?" Greg laughed dryly.

Mycroft cocked his head. "Why would I want to kill someone as handsome as you are? That would be a waste. And I would never hurt you, Detective Inspector." He lowered his head and he made a little break between every word of his last sentence, sending shivers over Greg's back.

Greg slowly walked to the table, never letting Mycroft out of his sight, and took the gun. The bullets were still in it and it hadn't been manipulated. Greg pointed it at Mycroft's chest, finger at the trigger.

"I could just shoot you now and drag you off to a cell," Greg said. His hands were shaking, he didn't want to shoot at this man, but his job was more important than his private life.

"I know you won't do that, but as I already said - feel free to shoot at me whenever you want to."

Suddenly Sherlock groaned. The sound of him trying to get out of his bonds interrupted the silence. Mycroft turned his head and smiled.

"It seems that my brother is about to wake up, what a pity. I hoped he would stay unconscious until we had eaten the Chinese food. I'm afraid it's cold now." Greg looked down into the bag. It still smelled delicious, like his favourite food and he had no doubt that it was exactly the dish he always ate.

Mycroft walked to his brother and patted his head kindly. But then, suddenly, he began to smile and raised his umbrella to hit Sherlock with it. There was a loud groan as Sherlock was hit, more blood and then it was silent again.

It was impossible that that umbrella was a normal one.

"So… where were we?" Mycroft asked while he returned to the exact place he had been standing before. "Ah, yes. You wanted to shoot me." He lifted his arms and raised them aside. "Go ahead."

Greg snorted and lowered the gun. They both knew that he would never shoot this man. Not after all these letters and gifts.

"You're a murderer?" Greg asked and took a deep breath, "Flirting with a DI?" He suddenly felt like an idiot. He had been silly to believe that a psychopath could really be interested in him. "So, they were right? That the letters were fake, nothing in them real? You wrote them just to get a chance to kill a DI?"

Mycroft did something which surprised Greg. He pouted.

The elder Holmes looked like a serious, posh man, not like someone who would pout easily. It looked angelic and cute and the anger left Greg's mind within seconds.

"You are insulting me, Detective Inspector. I would never lie to you and I would never hurt you." He titled his head and clenched his umbrella. "I already told you that."

"Why did you write these letters? Why did you give me these gifts and the photos? Just tell me why!"

Mycroft smiled. "Because I'm interested in you, Detective Inspector. I already told you that you're attractive and handsome. Do I need more reasons to explain why I wanted to meet you?"

Greg sighed and ran one hand through his hair, looking at John and Sherlock. And then he smiled.

"The food's still warm and I'm hungry." He sat down and rested the gun next to his dish. "I hope it's not poisoned."

Mycroft chuckled and sat in front of him, umbrella hanging over his backrest. He lent back and entwined his fingers.

"It isn't, I can assure you."

Greg waited until Mycroft began to eat. It was his favourite food and his stomach growled, he was hungry and the food looked fantastic. Mycroft smiled at him and took another sip of the wine. Greg hesitated. Yes, he had a crush on this polite gentleman, but he wasn't a fool. This man in front of him was a killer, a man who wrote with blood, and who was a self-proclaimed psychopath. He shouldn't trust him, but he already did.

"The food is getting cold, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said and smiled at him. "Should I prove to you that it is not poisoned?"

He lent over the table, took one of Greg's spring rolls and ate it. He chuckled, took another and held it in Greg's direction.

"It would be a pity to waste this, don't you agree?"

Greg rolled his eyes and ate. Hell, even if it was poisoned and Mycroft was resistant against it, at least he would die with the knowledge that there was someone who adored him. His ex-wife certainly never had.

"Does it taste poisoned?" Greg shook his head and ate another one. "Shall I do the same with the wine?"

Greg laughed quietly and took a sip of the red liquid. It tasted good, expensive and normally not his choice of drink, but it completed the atmosphere of the date. The candle in the middle of the table cast a cloud over Mycroft's face, darkening it. There were two unconscious people sitting against the wall next to them and he had a gun lying within his reach, but he felt like he was in a restaurant.

"I would ask you to tell me something about yourself, Detective Inspector, but I already know everything."

Greg raised one eyebrow and smirked, "You do? Prove it."

If he was like Sherlock, he would love to show off. And indeed, Mycroft began to smirk and his eyes began to glow like the one's of a child who was about to get some candy.

Mycroft lent back and folded his hands in front of his lap.

"Your divorce was two years ago, but your ex-wife still tries to get you back. Not because she loves you, she never did, but because of your salvation and your position. Of course you don't want her back," Mycroft's features hardened and Greg gulped, knowing that that had been some kind of threat and warning for him.

"But you feel sorry for her and you allow her to visit you every Saturday for breakfast and you take her to lunch. You have been bi-sexual since you were 15. Your first kiss was a boy you shared a class with, mathematics if I am not mistaken. But you always preferred men, you're not a fan of breasts and curvy figures and you like the feeling of a cock inside you or in your mouth. You hate your nieces, they are too loud and annoying, but you never let them or your sister see your hatred because you feel like you owe her. She introduced you to your first boyfriend, the one who took your virginity only to leave you two weeks later."

"How do you know about Jeremy?" Greg asked surprised. No one but his sister had ever known about them, and she had never told anyone. They never went out together, they didn't talk during school or in their free time. They only met at Jeremy's house.

Mycroft titled his heat. "I know **everything**, Detective Inspector. And I also know that you asked yourself why he left you and where he went. He was killed in Canada; a drunken driver hit him while he was ignoring the street signs."

Greg didn't like the look in Mycroft's eyes. There was something murderous, not crazy or maniac, but self-confident and powerful in them.

"Did you…" Greg swallowed hard and looked on his plate, "kill him?"

"Me?" Mycroft laughed, but stopped after a while and lent in Greg's direction, their noses were almost touching. "I ordered him killed, but I did not drive the car."

A shiver ran over Greg's back and he gulped again. Mycroft lent back and continued to eat as if nothing had happened. He just confessed a murder, but he seemed to know that Greg wouldn't tell anyone about this chat.

"Tell me about yourself, Mycroft." Greg said after a while and smiled. "You know everything about me, but I don't know a thing about you."

"You know that I'm a killer and a psychopath, Detective Inspector."

"Call me Greg, if I'm calling you Mycroft that would only be fair."

Mycroft nodded and smiled. "Very well, Gregory. You know that I'm a killer and a psychopath, you know that I'm Sherlock's older brother."

"Yes… but I don't know what you do for a living, what you prefer, your favourite books… aren't those things people talk about on dates?"

"Well, this isn't an ordinary date, is it?"

Greg laughed. "No, I don't think it is. I've never been on a date with a… murderer and with two of my mates tied to chairs."

Mycroft turned his head to look at John and Sherlock. He must have hit them hard, they both were still unconscious.

"I'm not a murderer, Gregory, I'm a killer. And a psychopath."

"You Holmes seem to like calling yourselves psychopaths. Your brother says he's a sociopath and you're a psychopath. Is that some kind of hobby or inside-joke?"

"No, I assure you I am a psychopath." Mycroft took his umbrella and tapped it against the ground. Maybe it was a habit, his way to show that he didn't like the conversation or that he was nervous. It was easy to see his mood in his handwriting, but he seemed to be a master at hiding his emotions in person. "Are you trying to deduce me?"

Greg blushed and ate another spring roll before he could say something awkward and silly.

"Anything interesting?" Mycroft asked him grinning. "Impress me."

The DI cleared his throat and entwined his fingers and rested his hands in front of his plate. Mycroft's were a few inches away from his, he could almost touch them.

"Well… you seem to be posh, and polite. It's not a trick, I guess… anyway, you try to hide your emotions, maybe because you think they're your only weakness, you try to act like you're only able to be happy, not angry, nervous or sad. But your handwriting reveals you. I was always able to tell which mood you were in when you wrote the letter, it changes when you're angry or tired and exhausted. I think you hold a high position, manager or politician, because it would be easy for you to kill people without getting caught when you have influence. You… well, either you're gay or bi-sexual, I'd say you were gay because of the way you dress and smell, your cologne is expensive and so is everything you wear, except your pocket watch, so I would say it has a meaning for you, maybe an heirloom."

Mycroft didn't say a word. He looked Greg in the eyes, a corpse-like stare. Greg cleared his throat and tried to avoid the look. It was impossible; Mycroft's eyes were hypnotizing.

And then he clapped.

Not enthusiastic like soccer-fans cheering for their team, slow with long breaks between each clap, but he smiled. Greg felt proud and blushed when Mycroft's hands brushed his own.

"I see my brother has been a good influence on you, Gregory. You were correct about everything except one thing." He lent down until their lips were only a few inches away from each other. "I do not think emotions are my only weakness, I **know** it."

Greg smiled and stared at Mycroft's lips, they looked like they were soft, made to be kissed. "So, are you gay or bi? And what about the watch and your job?"

"A curious one, aren't you?" Mycroft chuckled, "I am gay, I always was. Sherlock used to say I'm afraid of, to quote him, 'Boobies'. The watch used to be my father's and before him it was his father's and so on. And I am a politician. To be exact, I am the British Government."

Greg raised his eyebrow. "You're the British Government? Why don't I believe you?" He smiled and titled his head, their noses touching while he did it.

"I can hack into every single camera in Britain, Ireland and Scotland. I could kidnap anyone without any consequences and I can kill everyone I want because no one would dare insulting me with the conclusion that I might be a killer. You and Sherlock are the only people who know what I do."

"What about John? Sherlock seems to tell him everything."

Mycroft laughed and took a sip of his wine, not moving away from Greg. The DI could feel how his body got warmer, the hairs on his neck stood up.

"Sherlock hates me, yes, but he would never tell anyone what I am. He knows that I want to see the world burn, that I want to kill people just because I can and he does nothing about it. And do you know why?" Greg shook his head. Mycroft's eyes darkened again, the bright blue and grey got darker until they were almost black. A crazy glare, of which Greg should be afraid, but he wasn't. As Mycroft continued to talk, his voice was only a whisper. "Because it's his fault that I started to kill. And without me, he would have nothing, not his brilliant mind, not his deducing skills. **Nothing**."

"It's his fault?" Greg shivered. He liked this deep, raspy voice, the whispering and the knowledge of power and influence.

"Sherlock used to get bored so easily," Mycroft said, his voice sounded psychopathic, crazy, but still serious and controlled and he titled his head and brushed Greg's lips with his own. "He would cry and scream and sometimes run to the graveyard. He just stood there, perfectly still in front of the graves and he always told me he wanted to see a corpse, that he wanted to touch the wax-like skin because he wanted to dissect them until he could reach their heart. I wanted to be a good brother, so I went outside to the slum of our hometown and killed a homeless guy. _Le sang a coulé et coulé et mes mains ont été rouges et j'ai ris parce que j'ai aimé ce sentiment._ (1). But Sherlock wanted more and more."

Greg got goose bumps. This sounded like the story of someone who was caged in a padded cell, hidden in the shadows because no one should see them and feel sorry for them.

And yet here he was, almost kissing a killer and feeling sorry for him because of his baby brother who wanted to cut human beings open. And he was surprised that he didn't mind, that he wasn't afraid of Mycroft Holmes because he fucking loved this man and he would never betray him, he would never tell anyone that this man was a serial killer and psychopath.

"'_Cause really I'm a psycho, I told you I'm a psycho_", Mycroft suddenly sang and chuckled, rubbing his nose against Greg's, "_You know I'm gonna' get ya_."

It shouldn't have surprised Greg that he was able to speak with a perfect American accent, this man probably spoke more languages than Greg would know. And that chuckle… Greg loved the way it sounded, that it was able to send shivers down his back and into his crotch. And this man sang like an angel, like a demon with wings and a halo, switching between heaven and hell within seconds.

"What tells you that you don't have me already?" Greg asked quietly and licked over his lips, enjoying that Mycroft followed the movement with his eyes.

"I know that I do, Gregory", Mycroft chuckled and closed the gap between them.

Greg had kissed before, but it had never felt like this time. Mycroft's lips were soft, but his kiss was wild and hard and full of emotions and passion. Greg reached out to grab his shoulder, he dug his fingers into the fabric of the waistcoat. He moaned into the kiss as Mycroft stroked his hair, almost kindly. They parted, both breathless and grinning. Mycroft chuckled and titled his head.

"You just kissed a criminal, Gregory," he said and licked over his bitten and swollen lips, "and you did very well. I'm impressed."

"Thank you, you were acceptable."

Mycroft pouted and Greg laughed before he kissed him on the forehead.

"You kissed a DI who fell in love with a psychopath."

The man in front of him just smiled and stood up; John had just made a sound. They would wake soon.

"I'm afraid I have to kill them," Mycroft said and took his umbrella, already walking in the direction of his brother and the ex-army doctor.

Greg gasped appalled and stared at Mycroft with wide-open eyes. Kill them? His own brother and John? Greg could stop him with his gun, but he didn't even try to take it. He wouldn't shoot at Mycroft, he never would and the killer knew that.

Mycroft turned around and chuckled. "I think I should teach you to deduce when I'm making a joke and when I'm serious."

"You're not going to kill them?" Greg asked relieved.

"Why should I? If I wanted to kill Sherlock, I would have done it when he was a little, harmless child."

Greg stood up, packed away his gun and went to Mycroft's side. "I'll take them to their flat."

"They'll get on your nerves, unfortunately." Mycroft sighed and pulled out his cell phone, "I'm going to call my assistant, she'll take the three of you back to London."

Greg nodded and blushed as Mycroft put an arm around his waist. It felt natural.

"Here," he said, taking Mycroft's phone and typing his number in, "you can phone me instead of writing letters."

Mycroft laughed. A black car stopped in front of them and a young woman got out, nodding at Greg and Mycroft before she dragged the two unconscious flat mates into the backseat.

"I'm still going to stalk you."

"I don't doubt that."

Mycroft lent down and placed a kiss on Greg's cheek before he turned around and walked into the shadows of the warehouse, swinging his umbrella and humming a song Greg didn't know.

"_You know I'm a psycho, I told you I'm a psycho_", Mycroft turned around and pulled his right shoulder up to a beat only he was able to hear, grinning like a maniac, "_Really, I'm a psycho!_ (2)"

And with these words he disappeared and Greg was only able to smile and shake his head before he got into the car. He turned his head and chuckled. John's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. It almost looked sweet. Almost.

* * *

><p>(1): The blood flowed and flowed and my hands became red and I laughed because I enjoyed the feeling.<p>

(2): Watch the extended trailer for "Alan Wake: American nightmare" about Mr. Scratch on YouTube, I'm sure you'll find out which dance move I described^^

* * *

><p>So… *hides behind the desk* What do you think?<p>

This is going to be a small fanfiction, maybe with three or four chapters, but not more.

I'm addicted to the song "The Happy Song" by Poets of the Fall and almost the only lyrics is "You know I'm a psycho, I told you I'm a psycho!"

And I just thought "Why not, Mycroft could be a criminal, no one would ever know and he could easily kill people without any tracks!" And I wanted to make him dance like Mr. Scratch from Alan Wake in the trailer for the new Add-on, I admit it. Watch it, I wasn't able to stop grinning like an insane idiot because of it.

I'm crazy.

And yes, Dark!Mycroft is awesome.

I think my Mycroft is a mixture between the original Mycroft and Moriaty, he combines the best of both of them and because of that, he is the perfect killer.

A gentleman-killer-psychopath.

* * *

><p>Thanks for beta-reading to SilentEyedKat<p>

And thanks to Clementine for correcting my french^^


	2. I told ya

They drove back to Sherlock and John's flat. The woman watched him the whole time, maybe she was trying to deduce him or she just wanted to find out if he was going to betray Mycroft and hand him over to the police. The glance made him angry without any reason, of course she was worried and skeptical, he was a DI after all and Mycroft a criminal.

"I won't betray him." he finally said and grinned as she raised her eyebrow. "Why should I? As if someone would believe me when I tell them that the man who runs the British Government is a serial killer and psychopath."

She stayed silent, but he could see the slight smile on her face. She stopped looking at him and he was thankful for that.

The car stopped in front of the flat and they pulled the unconscious bodies inside, he was glad that Mrs. Hudson seemed to be out, maybe she was sleeping, he didn't care as long as she didn't show up suddenly. Sherlock groaned and John began to mumble something.

The assistant left, after giving him Mycroft's private number. He was alone in Sherlock and John's flat with two men who would be angry at him. Really, really angry. He was sure Sherlock would know that he kissed his brother and that he enjoyed it. He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. He just hoped John wouldn't use his gun.

Five minutes later, they woke up. Greg had cleaned their wounds and washed away the blood. They would still be angry.

So, as soon as he saw that Sherlock opened his eyes, he sighed and sat down in a chair and waited. Sherlock looked around, confused and groaning, until he saw Greg. His expression went blank, but Greg could see the anger in his eyes. It was his luck that, as soon as Sherlock wanted to jump out of his armchair, he fell back. His head probably killing him, the hit from his brother's umbrella making it impossible for him to move.

John woke up a few minutes after Sherlock. He didn't seem that angry, more confused and surprised. And he didn't look around, he seemed to know that it would make the headache worse. Sherlock didn't seem to care.

"Let me explain before you kill me, okay?" Greg begged and let his hand rest in front of his gun, just in case that Sherlock, or worse John, should try to kill him. "Even if I don't think I have an explanation…"

"What happened?" John asked, Sherlock just stayed quiet and shot glances in Greg's direction. "I can't remember anything… only that there was a black car and someone knocked me out…"

"Well," Greg cleared his throat and laughed nervously, "that was… Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" John asked surprised and unbelieving. "Sherlock's brother?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade," Sherlock snorted, "my brother would never do something like that on his own, he doesn't like to get his hands dirty."

"He knocked you out in the warehouse on his own," Greg snapped, surprised that he defended the killer in such a thing, "with his umbrella."

"Why… why would he knock us out?" John turned his head to look at Sherlock who didn't bother doing the same, he stared at Greg with an unreadable expression. "Kidnapping, okay, I could understand that, but… why knock us out?"

"He probably kidnapped us after knocking us out. He wanted to make sure that we wouldn't interrupt their." Sherlock's glance focused on Greg's lips and his cheek. "Date. Did he tell you what he does?"

The question sounded like a challenge. Sherlock thought that Mycroft hadn't told him and that he would be able to destroy their… association. Greg fought off a grin. This was absolutely lovely, he was going to be able to tell Sherlock that he had deduced wrong.

"Tell him what?" John asked angrily. He was upset, maybe because he was the only one who didn't know what Mycroft was.

"That my **dear** brother is psychopathic, an insane killer."

Sherlock looked at him. His smile was wicked and triumphant. But after a few seconds he gaped, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping.

"He told you?" he screamed and jumped, groaning because of the headache. John pulled him down again. "He told you and you kissed him?"

"Wait… your brother is a killer?" John asked and turned his head to look at Greg. "Please tell me that Sherlock was just trying to insult his brother as always, please tell me that that was a joke."

Greg shrugged and shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't, John."

Sherlock stood up again and ran in Greg's direction. The DI jumped out of his chair, pulled out his gun and aimed for Sherlock's arm. He wouldn't shoot, but he didn't want Sherlock to reach him - he probably knew a few methods of torture and really painful points on the human body. It wouldn't surprise Greg.

John looked overstrained with the situation. He stood up and tried to get between the taller men, but neither of them let him. Greg and Sherlock looked each other in the eyes, none of them willing to give up this staring battle.

"Greg, please put the gun down and Sherlock, sit down, your head is going to kill you otherwise!" John begged and dragged Sherlock back to their armchairs. Greg lowered the gun, but didn't put it aside. He knew Sherlock too well to do that. "Could someone please explain this to me? Please?"

Greg sighed and sat down again. "Mycroft was the man who has been writing me those letters and sending me all the gifts and photos." he explained and felt that he was smiling again. "You wanted to stop me from going to the warehouse and somehow he was fast enough to stop you. He brought me to the meeting place and… we talked, ate together and he told me that he is…"

"A killer," John stated with a raised eyebrow.

"You forgot psychopath, freak, idiot, and murderer," Sherlock added groaning.

Greg just rolled his eyes and growled at Sherlock. They looked at each other again and John sighed.

"Okay, seriously, you want me to believe that your brother is a killer and that Greg is dating him with this knowledge?"

Sherlock and Greg nodded. John lent back, groaning and covering his face with his hands. Greg resisted the urge to chuckle because of that. This situation was serious, he knew that Sherlock would never reveal what Mycroft was - and was he the only one who thought that that line could be written in one of those vampire-romance books? - but John? He had always been an honest man, someone who wanted justice. He would tell the Yard.

Greg couldn't let that happen.

"You're dating a criminal, Greg!" John suddenly shouted, making Sherlock groan because of his headache. "You should drag him to a cell or in front of a judge!"

"My dear John, you're underestimating my influence within the police and every court."

Sherlock turned around and growled angrily. Greg stood up and smiled, it was Mycroft, swinging his umbrella through the air. He wasn't wearing his jacket anymore, he had it tossed over his shoulder. The elder Holmes didn't smile, his expression was blank except for the shining in his eyes. He looked dangerous and ready to kill.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked and sat down again, reaching out for his violin and the bow.

"I just wanted to make sure that John here won't do anything," he tipped his index finger against his chin, he looked like he was searching for a word, "stupid or suicidal."

"Was that a threat?" John looked around the room to find his gun. Mycroft lifted his hand and presented a gun, John's gun.

"You're searching for this?" he chuckled, turned his head to Greg and winked at him. "Hello again, Gregory."

"Hello Mycroft." Greg smiled before raising his gun again, just in case that someone would do something… stupid. No one would jump at anyone's throat, at least as long as he was here. "Could we please put the guns away? We are all grown-ups, there's no need to kill each other."

Mycroft was the first one to follow his request. He sat down on the armrest of Greg's chair, reaching out for his arm and pulling him down. They sat next to each other, arms touching and hands resting next to each other. He could easily entwine their fingers. But he didn't do it, it would only upset Sherlock more.

John was the next to sit down. Sherlock had already sat and started to 'play' his violin - Greg would describe it as musical rape.

"So, Mycroft… you're a killer and a politician who… occupies a minor position in the British Government?" John asked after a while, hands desperately searching for something to grab.

Mycroft nodded and titled his head. "Indeed, but I think the glance Sherlock is shooting at me says: 'You forgot psychopath.'"

"You won't start singing that song again, will you?" Greg whispered, leaning in Mycroft's direction and turning his head, his lips brushing over Mycroft's ear. "I'm afraid that John might faint again."

"Get a room!" shouted Sherlock angrily, hands gesturing wildly.

"_Fais attention à ce que tu dis_ (1)." Greg understood French - his mother was _français_ and his grandparents weren't able to speak or understand English, but John obviously didn't. He raised his eyebrow and looked confused in Greg's direction. Even if Greg couldn't understand him, the tone was threatening and dangerous. It was terrifyingly amazing how easily Mycroft could switch between angelic nice to demonic evil.

"_Tu parles français pour avoir l'aire dangereux_ (2)?" Sherlock hissed. "_Absolutement impressionnant. Maman êtait fier de toi _ (3)."

Mycroft just laughed dryly and put his arm around Greg, leaning his head against Greg's. "_Et tu penses qu'elle est _fier de_ toi _(4)?"

Sherlock clenched his fist and growled. John shook his head and stood up to make tea. Greg could hear him whispering something about 'Rude,' he was angry that no one seemed to be interested in translating the conversation.

"_Je ne suis pas le tueur et psychopathe dans notre famille_ (5)!"

"May I interrupt?" Greg asked, blushing - Mycroft's body heat wasn't helping much with this fact - when both of them were looking at him, Sherlock glaring daggers at him. "Why are you speaking in French?"

Mycroft chuckled and entwined their fingers, squeezing Greg's hand. "Our mother is French, she insisted that we be able to speak with her side of the family tree, _mon chérie_ (6)."

Greg's cheeks got pinker. Mycroft seemed to like pet names and he enjoyed making Greg blush far too much. Sherlock rolled his eyes and hissed something Greg wasn't able to understand, but Mycroft did. He shot a glance in Sherlock's direction, pulled out John's gun and pointed it at his brother, safety already released.

"Don't you dare say that again, brother! Understood?"

He looked like a demon at this moment, his face hidden in shadows, his expression angry and threatening at the same time. Normally the type of man Greg would love to shoot, just to stop the eyes burning holes into his mind and soul, but with this man, he didn't mind at all. As long as he didn't point the gun at him like that… okay, he was sure that this was going to happen at least once, but as long as Mycroft wouldn't pull the trigger, he had no problem with that.

"Can't I leave the room for a few moments without you killing each other?" John came back into the room, he held the kettle in his hands, "I think I've lost it."

He left again. Greg sighed and laid his hand on Mycroft's arm. "Please don't kill your brother, Mycroft; John's revenge would be murderous."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to play again. Mycroft pulled his watch out and looked at it before he stood up and kissed Greg on the corner of his mouth.

"I have to leave now, there's a woman waiting to be killed," he said cheerfully and swung his umbrella, "if you'll excuse me."

He left right before John came back from the kitchen with two cups of tea, one for him and one for Sherlock. Greg entwined his fingers and titled his head. John looked tired, and exhausted.

"Where is Mycroft?" he asked surprised and looked around, "Did he leave?"

"Obviously," Sherlock snorted and drank a sip of his tea, "he's going to kill someone."

"Um…" John cleared his throat and sat down next to Sherlock again. He drank one sip and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "O-okay… why do you feel so… comfortable with this, Sherlock?"

"Why shouldn't I?" John raised his eyebrow. Sherlock just shrugged and crossed his legs. "Antisocial personality disorder is dull."

"Antisocial what?" Greg asked. John sighed and put away his cup. "Is that some kind of mental illness?"

"Yes, a psychosis characterized by a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood." John squeezed his own hands - he seemed to calm himself down. "Individuals with it fail to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviours as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest. Callous unconcern for the feelings of others, gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for social norms, rules, and obligations. They don't experience guilt or profit from punishment or anger."

Sherlock nodded. "The diagnosis includes what may be referred to as amoral, antisocial, asocial, psychopathic, and sociopathic personality disorder. That's what the psychiatrist told our parents when Mycroft was fourteen." He rolled his eyes and mumbled something none of the other men were able to understand.

Greg tried to keep his mind focussed. He couldn't lose it right now in front of Sherlock and John, couldn't show them how much this affected him. He had hoped Mycroft's… 'hobby' was something he liked, like other people who jogged or drank a glass of wine every evening, but… it was an illness. Something he didn't know about. John and Sherlock did, obviously, but Greg? He wasn't a doctor and neither a genius, just someone who carried a gun and had some influence on his own team. Nothing more, just a few officers. Nothing compared to the Holmes.

They were clever, absolutely brilliant and doubtless unchallenged.

He was ordinary normal. A DI, small in comparison to Mycroft Holmes.

"He's not listening, is he?" he could hear John's worry and concern about him. It dragged him out of his self-pity.

"Of course he's not!" Sherlock snored and stood up to leave the room. "His mind is too slow to handle this information."

Sherlock left and Greg groaned. This was insane, absolutely insane! The man he… he was in love with, this gentleman-like brilliant human being with this incredible smile which made his heart beat faster every time he was near him… he was a psychopath, a killer and murderer! He should drag him into a cell, make sure he won't leave again… he should… he should…

Greg groaned and hid his face in his hands. John cleared his throat, but Greg ignored him. He didn't notice him until the ex-army doctor stood up and squeezed his shoulder.

"I know it's… strange and that you…" John started, but he stopped sighing, "I don't know what I should say, to be honest."

"You could lie." Greg laughed dryly and lent back to let his head rest next to the armrest. Hell, it still **smelled** like Mycroft! "I'm in deep shit, right?" He lowered his hands and clasped his gun.

"I'm afraid you are." John smiled at him and took a few steps back. "You want some tea?"

"Do you have beer?"

The blonde chuckled silently and left. He came back with two bottles of some cheap beer, he gave one to Greg and opened the other for himself. Greg shifted awkwardly and looked down at the bottle.

"It doesn't surprise me that Mycroft has ASPD, to be honest." John started and cleared his throat again. "I have had the… pleasure of meeting him before and every time, I felt like he was just imitating movements, emotions, and gestures he had watched somewhere. People with ASPD aren't capable of having bounds with others; they can't connect or put themselves in someone else's position. Most of the 'effected' have a straitened repertoire of emotions - sometimes only negative emotions like anger and hate."

"So his love and affection is faked?" Greg asked, feeling tears flowing into his eyes.

John hesitated. "I… I don't think so, even if I can't be sure about that, I'm not a psychologist. Anyway, although they aren't able to feel emotions - some do, I've read some articles, they are masters of manipulation because they can easily notice and deduce emotions of other people, siblings, co-workers etc. They are known for being extraordinary charming and, if they are intelligent enough, able to radiate an acted facileness. Some of them are able to be the funniest person you'll ever meet, entertaining and witty."

Greg looked down again and closed his eyes. Of course a psychopath wouldn't be able to love him. Of course this all was a farce, ensuring that Greg would never tell anyone who he really was.

"I should arrest him, shouldn't I?" He pulled his gun away and stood up. "He's a murderer and psychopath, I… I really should call for back-up."

"Maybe I'll regret saying this someday, but, and I'm saying this as your friend, Greg - I felt like you at the beginning with Sherlock. He was cold, angry and refused to eat, sleep or stop his drug-abuse. But he changed and… I like to think he did it for me, you know?"

Greg turned around and raised an eyebrow. "So… you and Sherlock?" he asked and couldn't fight off the smile, "I owe Sally ten pounds."

"Betting on my love life?" John asked relatively in a good temper, but this mood changed immediately. "I made the mistake to fall in love with the high-functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes, yeah."

Greg sat down again and held his bottle up, as if proposing a toast.

"At least he's not a killer or a psychopath or has ASPD," he said and chuckled.

"Yes, but yours loves you - or pretends to, we don't know!" John toasted with him and they both drank a few sips of beer. "And he is charming and behaves like a normal human being who socialise!"

"Yours didn't write you letters with blood."

"Believe me, he did."

Greg raised his eyebrow and cocked his head. "He did? Why?"

John just shrugged and laughed. "Experiment, what else? He decided to see what reaction an in blood-written letter would cause. He did it once after you got your third letter and never did it again."

"Why?" Greg smirked and drank. He just hoped Sherlock wasn't listening, but he was pretty sure that the consulting detective had left - there had been a loud bang after he walked out, probably the front door.

"I punched him in the stomach after I found out that it was his."

They both laughed together and grinned like idiots. It helped not only Greg, but John too. Greg wasn't blind or silly, he saw how John looked at Sherlock every time the taller man wasn't watching him. He always saw the hurt and the hope when Sherlock smiled at John or told him to come with him. Greg was lucky that his Holmes showed his affection, the slowly growing tension between the flatmates was getting annoying and unbearable.

"Your Holmes doesn't sing some kind of sick and maniac song," Greg grinned. Sherlock wouldn't sing, he knew him far too well to not notice something like that. "And he doesn't dance in the middle of a warehouse to said song."

"Your Holmes doesn't play the violin at 3am in high-pitched and shrill tunes."

"I wouldn't know if he did." Greg put away the empty bottle and waved at John, silently giggling. "I only met him today."

"Yesterday," John corrected and pointed at the clock. It was after midnight. "Anyway… what I wanted to say before we changed the subject… I know the chances are low that you'll be together long enough - people with ASPD are known to change their partners quite often - to see these sides of him… but if you do, if you really love him even if you just read these letters, than you might be able to change him. You might be able to help him to stop this, stop the killing and kidnapping. Because that's what people do, they change each other. There's no cure for ASPD, there aren't any pills or panacea… it needs time. Like everything. Time and love…"

John looked at him and smiled. Greg could see the tears in his eyes, but neither of them spoke about it. Their lives were hard enough, they didn't need each other's pity. It was fine like that: They often sat together at each other's flat, drinking one or two beers and talking about nothing serious. Until today, of course. Because of the gentleman-psychopath haunting Greg's mind and heart.

"He'll probably kill me before I'll get the chance to change him." he laughed dryly and humourlessly. "I don't know anything about him, just a few things like he's rich and posh and a killer… why do I have to love him? Why didn't I save myself the trouble?"

John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I'll tell you if I find out," he said and put his own bottle away, "but I doubt that he will kill you. He… I just think his affection isn't faked, I saw love in his eyes and happiness. People with ASPD **are **capable of feeling, Greg, only cursorily emotions, but love? I think he does love you. Sherlock might hate his brother, but he needs you because you make sure he's allowed to work with the Yard. He would never let Mycroft kill you."

"I just hope he won't pull the trigger when he points a gun at me."

The ex-army doctor raised his eyebrow and looked at Greg's gun. "Why would he do that?"

"He pointed it at Sherlock, his own brother… the reason why he started to kill… why would he hesitate to do the same with me?" His voice shook; he hated how it sounded, like he was some kind of needy high school-cheerleader. He hated this weakness. "And he said that emotions are his only weakness. That means I am a weakness for him. One he is capable of eliminating on his own."

Suddenly Greg's phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out. It was a text from Mycroft.

_What about some lunch? - MH_

Greg rolled his eyes, looked at the clock before tipping his answer.

_Don't you think it's too late to eat lunch?_

_It's always time to admire your presence and to tell you that you're mine. - MH_

"Who is it?" John asked, but grinned because of the blush on Greg's cheeks, "Obviously Mycroft. What does he want?"

"He wants to eat some lunch. I think it's just a plea to look at me and tell me that 'I'm his'", Greg told him while texting. "I should tell him that I'm too tired, I'm not hungry anyway…"

"Just go, you twat," John laughed and stood up. "I'm going to enjoy the time without someone musically raping his violin. Sleep well, Greg. Have fun."

John went upstairs to his bedroom. Greg looked at the text he'd written and shook his head, grinning and deleting it to write something new.

_Only if we'll eat at your place; you know mine and I want to know yours._

The answer came five seconds later and Greg couldn't stop chuckling because of it. He stood up, took his coat and left, turning off the lights before he closed the door behind him. His car still stood there and he got in it. He knew the address without Mycroft telling him, it would surprise the elder Holmes, he was sure about that.

_I'll have to lock away my knives and the corpses, but I'd love to have you here. - MH  
><em>

* * *

><p>(1) Watch what you say, brother.<p>

(2) You're talking French to appear dangerous?

(3) Absolutely impressive. Mummy would be proud of you.

(4) And you think that she is proud of you?

(5) I'm not the killer and psycho here!

(6) My dear

* * *

><p>Thanks for beta-reading to SilentEyedKat<p>

And thanks for correcting my french to Clementine


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